Ronald Bilius Weasley: Elite of the Few
by slowfox
Summary: Ron develops a skill.


**Summary:** Following JKR's World Book Day Chat, the following bunny struck me. Post GoF, obviously.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, it's all JKR's.

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**Ronald Bilius Weasley: Elite of the Few**

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Ron _loved_ Transfiguration these days.

They were sitting in McGonagall's classroom, listening to the Head of Gryffindor summarise the week's reading once more. Hermione, to his left, was scribbling notes down frantically, despite having read everything during the week at least twice. Harry, on his other side, was sitting there somewhat listlessly: Ron knew that Harry had always found Transfiguration hard, but ever since McGonagall had embarked upon covering the first steps of the Animagus transformation, his best friend seemed to have lost interest completely.

Ron, however, was in his element. He was _good_ at this - and whilst it was perhaps a bit petty, part of him secretly delighted in having discovered that, like chess, the Animagus transform was something that Hermione was really struggling with: hence the slight touch of desperation in her as she scribbled McGonagall's words down furiously.

Ron allowed himself an inner smile: The Animagus Transform. You either got it, or you didn't. And for the time being, he was very, very much getting it. That this fact was dangerously close to sending Hermione off in a huff after every lesson was just icing on the Caludron Cake.

"Right," finished McGonagall, "no wands, of course. I want you all to try the transformation process. It's best to start with extremeties, such as fingers, or your hair - some of you, however," she nodded in Ron's direction, "should be capable of more significant transformation."

Ron tried hard not to look too pleased with himself at these words (and Hermione's almost incredulous follow-up: face it Granger, the boy's _good_), and then concentrated on preparing himself to make history.

There was something _right_ about it all, he reminded himself as he slowed his body down, internally, preparing to mould everything into its hidden, inner-self (_"the transform chooses the wizard, not the other way around,"_ McGonagall had repeated at least six times this lesson already). All those years in his brothers' shadows, but now, finally, he was on the threshold of having a Thing of his own. A _real_ valued skill. A quality.

His body shivered, limbs contracting, skin furring, and the world grew rapidly in size as the floor rose up to meet him.

In command of a lithe, supple body, Ron's fantastically augmented hearing caught his fellow Gryffindors' collective gasp of awe and amazement at this stunning transformation was complete. He twisted round upon himself, exploring the limits of what his new body was capable of - four legged, obviously, and low slung, very fast.

He was on the verge of demonstrating his agility further by climbing up his classmate's leg when he remembered that it was _Hermione_ on his left, and she was likely to take a dim view of him climbing up inside her skirt...

Pulling himself back to his senses, Ron reversed the transformation - unfortunately knocking over his chair in the process, but jubilant nonetheless.

"Excellent, Mr Weasley!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall, positively _beaming_.

Wearing a smile at least six-feet wide, Ron turned to absorb Hermione's approval and congratulation, slightly disappointed to see, instead, that she didn't look at _all_ happy.

She'd get over it, Ron decided, attributing Hermione's lack of joy to her noise being put out of joint because _he_ had beaten her at something. _Again._

Delighted, on top of the world and loving _every sodding second_ of the lesson, Ron snapped back into his Animagus form again to celebrate. See, it _wasn't_ a fluke! He was an Animagus! He was _unique_ (well, OK, not unique, but at least extremely distinguished...).

Most importantly, though, he was _cool_. Ron Weasley, a member of the Elite of the Few. Let the plaudits roll...

He, Ronald Bilius Weasley, was an _Animagus_. And they were like, really really rare. Offhand, Ron couldn't remember (well, OK, didn't know) how many Animagi had been registered in the past one hundred years (Hermione would tell him soon enough), but it was satisfaction enough to know that he was now part of that distinguished list.

More than satisfying. Pretty. Bloody. _Cool._

He snapped back again, unable to stave off the inevitable orgy of congratulation that was about to crash over him - this was even better than that time the Cannons beat the Falcons. This might even qualify for a Gryffindor Party, this was just ex...

Ron paused, mid thought. The expected hug of triumph from Hermione, just reward for his efforts, was being exceedingly conspicuous in its absence, the supposed giver of said hug was instead wringing her hands nervously together. Ron turned the other way to face Harry, expecting a nod, that unspoken acceptance that yeah, he was _cool_, from the person who knew _all_ about being one of the really, really rare, outstanding talents of his generation. But the 'cool, mate,' nod wasn't there, either.

As the elation started to die in the face of this apparently inexplicable reception, a dark suspicion began to grow in Ron's mind: "Hermione," he asked, carefully, "er, what _form_, exactly, does my Animagus take..."

Hermione stopped wringing her hands and took a calming breath... before remaining silent on the subject.

He swivelled in his seat, noting McGonagall - still smiling delightedly (which was a pretty odd picture in its own right) - gradually making her way over to their desk. "Harry?" he tried, although not harbouring much hope that his best mate's answer would be any more forthcoming than Hermione's.

"Yeah, mate," agreed Harry, unhelpfully.

Ron glared.

"Well," asserted Hermione, suddenly finding her voice, "as you know, the transformation chooses the wizard, and not vice versa, so..."

Ron closed his eyes before asking calmly (and invoking magnificent restraint in the process), "So _what_ do I turn into, then?"

In the ensuing, dark silence, their Head of House had finally arrived in front of their desk, and when re-opened his eyes , she was flicking her head to fix Harry, then Hermione with sharp, unimpressed glares (and damn right she should, too): "Well honestly! Potter! Miss Granger! Aren't you going to _tell_ him?"

"Well," began Harry, hesitantly, understandably reticent to ignore such a direct order from their Head of House. Unfortunately, reticence won out after that, because The Boy Who Lived, a Gryffindor through and through, then conspicuously failed to continue his answer.

Ron's eyes slid right, confirming as they did so that Harry's face was indeed as troubled as his voice. Puzzled, he glanced left, to see Hermione still wringing her hands, biting her bottom lip uncertainly.

Obviously frustrated with his compatriots' wall of silence on the subject, McGonagall appeared to dismiss these foolish Gryffindors from her mind with a brief flick, looking more _impressed_ with a student than Ron had ever seen (although Harry had told him in full about the Remembrall Incident, so maybe he'd have to settle for a tie on that front).

"Your Animagus form is a ferret!" McGonagall's voice was so congratulatory, it took Ron a couple of seconds to register the words.

He'd been part way into turning to face Hermione to receive congratulations he was due (and, perhaps, a little dose of awe), but froze, the six foot wide grin on his face evaporating faster than you could say _Mimbulus mimbletonia_.

He flicked his head back round to follow up this disturbing revelation with the Transfiguration teacher, but she'd rushed off to help Lavender, who's hair was refusing to transfigure back from its rabbit fur.

Harry looked grave. Hermione's face looked as though someone had just died: "Oh, Ron!" she sympathised, before trying to put a brave face on things: "But you know, it's _really_ special to have mastered the Animagus tr..."

"Hermione," ordered Ron, harshly, "what _colour_ ferret?" He didn't really need to ask, because he already knew the terrible answer, somehow. But until it was confirmed there was that slim chance that he was being overly pessimistic.

"Well," ventured Harry, in a tone of forced matter-of-factness, "there are only a few colours that fer..."

"Tell. Me," growled Ron, with the vague hint of threat behind the words.

"Your Animagus transform, Ron, isawhiteferret," relayed Hermione, saying the final words extremely quickly, as though their significance might be masked that way.

The terrible curse swept away the last traces of jubilation from within him, and Ron clamped his jaw shut, and sunk heavily into his chair. "Fine!" he growled, staring straight ahead, not even cheered up slightly by Hermione rubbing his arm sympathetically.

He _hated_ Transfiguration. Loathed it with the burning fire of a thousand suns.

Not just any old ferret, no. No, not for him: it wouldn't be, would it? A sodding _white_ ferret.

That was it: he was going to deck Malfoy the very next chance he got.


End file.
